Quirks and Idiosyncracies
by Izaranna
Summary: Mycroft has always been adamant about his imperviousness to emotions, especially that plebeian sentiment Sherlock accused him of indulging in: loneliness. So what if he was neck-deep in goldfish? He did not, he couldn't stress this enough, have a 'problem'.


**"I'm living in a world of goldfish." - BBC Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock**

* * *

Mycroft was having a very stressful day.

He was of the opinion that guns should be legal in the inevitable event he felt like blowing the prime minister's head to kingdom come. But then, he deliberated, if it were to become legal then Britain would dissolve into something resembling America, and quite frankly he just couldn't deal with something like _that_ at five am.

Sinking into his chair (straight-backed as always, never show weakness, weariness or worry) with a cup of coffee on his table waiting for him, Mycroft reached for the sheaf of papers that his secretary had left on his desk. The coffee had been brewed precisely six minutes prior, one cube of sugar (he was trying to cut down) and exactly twenty two millilitres of milk having been added to it.

Many a secretary had been fired for getting it wrong. If Mycroft was the type to believe in such things, he would say his name-changing secretary had been an example of divine intervention. If he'd had one more incompetent secretary…

He sipped his perfectly brewed coffee and pored over the latest proposals for Her Majesty's budgeting schemes, all of which were going into the reject pile by the looks of things. He just needed to keep up the pretence of actually caring.

Acting compassionate was very arduous. Pity politics was by and large the only course of life he wouldn't be too bored with.

It was at that moment, when he was mentally correcting Mr Dog-Breaths' grammar, that he felt strangely…as though there were a bowling ball pressed against his torso. Mycroft Holmes intellectually understood this feeling to be that dreaded and wasteful thing most plebeians referred to as _emotions_.

Shaking his head to rid himself of such ludicrous fancies ( _Him, feelings? Perish the thought._ ), Mycroft instead used his massive intellect to fathom a solution to the tiresome situation his little brother had landed himself in yet again.

That always gave him a laugh. And a headache. But most importantly, it distracted him from things he'd rather not think about.

* * *

"Hello dear brother."

"To what do I owe the pleasure Sherlock?"

"Mummy sends her condolences."

"Be less of a nuisance Sherlock. It's hardly necessary to be so circumspect."

"She heard you were dying of a chronic illness. I'm throwing a party."

"Come now, we both know you couldn't handle an event that required socialising without destroying something of major importance. Remember Majorca?"

"Mummy sent a gift."

"…It's a fish."

"A goldfish Mycroft."

"…And the return policy—"

"You can take it up with Mummy yourself. You know I can't stand her crying."

"..."

"Put the goldfish down. You look ridiculous."

"Incidentally, what chronic illness does she fancy I have this time?"

"I may have mentioned your alarming weight loss."

"She took it to mean I was…"

"But of course."

* * *

Aquila, previously Abellana, formerly known as Accalia, but once was known as Anthea, entered her employers office with her phone vibrating incessantly.

She usually filed her boss' work before he left so that he had less to do when his anal retentiveness invariably kicked in, but today there was something very unusual about the room.

Not being able to put her finger on it, Aquila (or etc) went about her business, preventing at least two international incidents over texts and emptying the crumpled-paper filled dustbin simultaneously.

All in a day's work.

It wasn't until she'd put away the last folder that she noticed _it_.

Nearly dropping her phone in surprise, she stared at the tiny little goldfish casually swimming in its little fish bowl, acting as though it hadn't just shattered her pristine perception of her boss.

Of course, Mr Holmes was never notified of this; Aquila, later Alexandria, loved her job too much to lose it over a goldfish.

No matter how questionable his possession of it was.

* * *

"Is that a _goldfish_?"

"Yes Prime Minister, it just so happens to be one of those things."

"There are two of them."

"So there are. Now if we could get back to the matter at hand—"

"You never struck me as the type to own goldfish—or any fish for that matter."

"...Perhaps we should conduct this meeting elsewhere."

* * *

John had absolutely no idea what he was doing in Mycroft's office, but he just couldn't bring himself to care at this point; these random kidnappings had been going on for _years_ now, and one could only assume he'd gotten used to it.

As he waited for the elder Holmes brother to make an appearance, John contented himself with eyeing the room. Sherlock had told him about the—ah, there it was.

But hang on...

"Why the bloody hell does he have six goldfish in one bowl?"

* * *

Christmas time was a special time, at least that's what most of the consumer magazines had been brainwashing people into believing for years.

Mycroft just didn't seem to see the point.

Not that he cared of course, but then they all insisted on getting him presents; when the Duke of Edinburgh sent you a Christmas card and a shaving kit, one must return the favour to keep up appearances.

However, while over the years he'd gotten plenty of odd gifts, this year's haul—if you'll excuse the pun—took the cake.

For some unfathomable reason, Dr Watson had decided he was in desperate need of a 10% off gift voucher for Pets At Home, with a note telling him of all the diseases he'd seen that could have been prevented if his patients hadn't been in tiny enclosed spaces.

And then Sherlock had seen fit to send him another goldfish with a little note saying 'Irony'. One could only wonder as to what silly things went on in his brothers' mind.

Mummy and Father's joint present of around a gazillion photos of their last vacationing spot was basically tradition this time of the year. They had also sent him a card and a chocolate cake.

But what truly made him stare searchingly at his thirty two goldfish in askance was the gift the Queen had bestowed upon him; a book titled _'Goldfish: A Complete Pet Owner's Manual'_.

Perhaps thirty three goldfish were a bit too much.

* * *

 **"I'm not lonely Sherlock." - BBC Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes**

* * *

 _A little one-shot that a friend named Caoimhe inspired. Constructive criticism welcomed and encouraged. Reviews appreciated immensely! ^^_


End file.
